Stay
by Bowlines
Summary: Relationships are often odd, but when Sherlock Holmes is involved, relationships take a whole new, positively nonsensical form. Joanlock.
1. Stay

**Stay**

She's there for him and he's there for her. They don't voice these facts, that's as unnecessary as saying that Nuneaton is a horrid place, but they know it. They both know pain and grief all too well, and they are both wise enough to know they wouldn't have gotten as far alone as they got together. And often, one of them takes advantage of this fact. Sherlock asks Joan to monitor his sleep every now and then, and she asks him to please accompany her to a family gathering, and they go, easily, quietly, and without ever questioning.

But it's on a stormy Saturday evening, when the town is quiet and the cases are scarce and Sherlock is going stir-crazy, that Joan decides it's time to understand what is it that's happening. He's sitting next to the fireplace on his favourite armchair, striped sock-clad feet plopped over an ottoman, _Summa Theologica_ resting on his lap. A cup of tea – most certainly cold judging by the amount of time it's been there – rests next to him on the coffee table, and she takes a moment to wonder if she'll ever be able to remove the stain that cup is leaving on the wood. She takes a brief glance at him, hoping she didn't linger long enough for him to notice, but she's not rapid enough. He notices her there, and closes his book on his lap before glancing up at her.

"Watson, why don't you just say whatever it is that you want to say and preserve your shoe soles?" he asks, and she considers just dropping it.

But she won't. She needs to understand this co-dependent relationship they have, needs to understand if they're still just partners and friends, or if the nights he slept or her floor and held her hand after a particularly frightening case got the best of her have changed their relationship. She recognizes that her own need for labels is rather pathetic. They're adults, they don't have to explain what they have to anyone, but for some reason, she feels like she needs it explained, not for any third-party, but to herself.

She hesitates for a moment before asking him. "What are we?" she blurts out, eyes glued on the sheer pulchritude on his face, trying – and failing – her best not to look _too _nervous.

"What part of our existence are you referring to?" he asks, and she can't tell if he's being serious or just pulling her leg, but decides it's best not to intervene with his response "We're beings in the macrocosm. Sapient creatures, some of us. Consumers of oxygen. We're…"

"You and me, Sherlock." She says "We as in us. Holmes and Watson. Joan and Sherlock. What are we, the two of us?"

He ponders for a moment, before taking his feet off the footrest and reaching for the cup of tea. He seems annoyed by the question, confused even, which is something she's sure she's never seen before.

"I do not understand what is it that you plan to achieve with this inquiry, Watson." He tells her, setting the cup back on the table "I fail to see both your point and what caused you to pursue this, and I'm honestly gobsmacked at the blatant ignorance of it."

"Excuse me? Ignorance of what? I'm just trying to understand the kind of relationship we're harbouring." She says, and it's almost a whisper. She's not normally fazed by never-ending rudeness, but this is not exactly a normal situation. "God, Sherlock, can you not see it? Something has changed here. Between us. You fall asleep by my side so often I've come to startle when you're not there. You have been observing me. Not just normal Sherlock Holmes observations, but personal observations." She tells him, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "You bought me flowers last week. My favourites."

She looks at him, pleading, begging him to just tell her what he thinks, explain what he's doing, where they're going, _what he wants. _

But he doesn't. It takes him a second, and then he's dashing off to lord knows where, his coat and shoes disappearing alongside him through the front door.

She's not entirely sure what she expected, but that certainly wasn't it. He ran from her, almost literally ran from her, and as always, there she stands, confused, annoyed, and so, so very intrigued. Accept the fact that Sherlock Holmes is and always will be a mystery, she says to herself, before she can drag her feet up the stairs and into her bedroom. He will not be there tonight, that much she's sure of, but not much else is clear.

It's well after one when she hears the doorknob turn. A faint light comes from the hallway, and she sees a shadow, his shadow, standing on the doorway.

"Sherlock?" she calls, her voice drowsy with sleep.

"I don't know." He responds, shifting on his heels.

"Don't know if you are Sherlock?"

"Don't know what we are." He tells her "I'm not a common man Watson, and you can't expect my relationships to be common. I enjoy your company, there's no one else I'd rather spend time with, and I'd go to any length to protect you, but I doubt there's anything in these words you don't already know." He continues "Therefore, I invite you, Watson, to tell me what we are, for I do not know."

He's right. She knows all of that already. But for some wicked reason, she needs that affirmation.

"We are whatever we want to be."

"And what is that?"

"I don't know." She really doesn't. Sherlock is chaotic, careless, infantile, completely crackers prick, and a romantic relationship with him sounds in no way desirable, and yet, a future without him seems unfathomable. She can't fight for that relationship alone, and she's bloody near sure he won't fight alongside her.

"Well, be sure to inform me once you do know." He says, and turns around to leave the room.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Stay."

**Author's Note: Blimey, I cannot believe I did it! I've been meaning to write an Elementary fic for so long now but never got around to it, but now it's done! Not sure about the quality, but I hope you enjoy it anyway, and please let me know what you think! **


	2. Bach and Porridge

**Chapter 2: Bach and Porridge**

Joan doesn't sleep well. Sherlock sleeps on her bed instead of the floor, but since they still haven't really agreed on what their relationship is, that's all he does. He lies next to her, back pressed firmly against the mattress, arms glued to his sides as if he had been dared to pretend he was dead. He's painfully stiff and she mirrors his behaviour, but doesn't succumb to slumber. She just lies there for the whole of five hours and stares at the ceiling, thinking about all of the things she wants to say to Sherlock but still hasn't had the opportunity to do so.

He's up before seven, as per usual. She doesn't indicate that she's awake and he doesn't seem to notice, and makes an effort not to disturb her when he leaves the bed. She falls asleep almost immediately after he leaves, managing to get a full two hours of uninterrupted sleep until she's awoken by the sound of someone playing the violin. It's Sherlock, obviously, and she recognizes the melody as Bach's _Allegro Assai _before she can reach the hallway. It's beautiful, it always is. Sherlock is perhaps one of the most talented violinists she's ever heard, and she tells him so every chance she gets.

She ties her robe around her waist and descends the steps into the foyer. She doesn't see him immediately. _Allegro Assai _has ended and she doesn't recognize the next melody, but follows its sound into the kitchen. Sherlock is standing next to the stove, where the kettle is boiling and a saucepan is simmering. He's not in the clothes he wore to bed – which is ironic, since he wore jeans and a shirt to bed – he's wearing pyjama pants and a white cotton vest. She's never seen him dress like that before, but it's a nice surprise. She can't really tell from the angle she's standing, but he appears to be smiling – smirking is more likely – and quite content, and if she didn't know better, she'd probably think he had several rounds of exuberant sex first thing in the morning.

"Sherlock?" she calls, fiddling nervously with the sleeves of her robe.

"Watson!" he replies, halting the music and setting the bow down "Good morning." If she had any doubt in her mind that Sherlock is bonkers, she doesn't anymore. He's definitely smirking, the contents of the pot do not look disgusting, and he's _jovial. _All the things you could attribute to just anyone BUT Sherlock Holmes now seem an intrinsic part of his personality. "I made some coffee for you, I know you didn't sleep very well."

And suddenly she's scouring the room for cameras and the Prank Patrol crew. She doesn't find either.

"Thank you." She chokes out "what are you cooking?"

The coffee pot is hot but not too hot, so she gathers that he knew when she was coming down and warmed it for her. It's sweet and domestic and utterly terrifying.

"Porridge." He tells her, taking the bow from the table and starting a seemingly improvised melody. It bores him after maybe seven or eight seconds and he sets both the violin and the bow back on the table, taking a wooden spoon and stirring the porridge.

"You should play more often." She tells him, taking the coffee mug and settling across the violin and bow on a chair with an odd leather seat. "It's nice."

He offers her a smile and goes back to stirring, and she senses he's a wee bit uncomfortable.

"I…" she's ready to say something, but he stops her before she can get past the pronoun.

"The porridge is ready." He announces, quickly pouring it in two bowls.

He sets one in front of her and the other next to the violin and bow, where he sits.

"I don't suppose it'll taste terrible, but if it does, please don't feel complied to eat it."

"I'm sure it's great." She assures him, lifting the spoon from the bowl and scooping some of it, and putting it into her mouth.

She absolutely loathes porridge. She always thought of it as something you either grow up loving or taste in adulthood and hates it, like peanut butter or Jerry Seinfeld, but she's not about to rain on his efforts.

She knows he's going to notice the faint twitches in her face and the way she swallows it before she can really taste it, but does her best to hide her distaste from him anyway.

And that's when she notices something quite odd. His own face twitches and he too, swallows the thing without tasting it. He scoops too much porridge at once as if he wants it to be over soon, and takes it off the spoon with his teeth rather than his tongue, as if he's doing everything he can to keep it away from his taste buds.

"Why did you make porridge if you don't like porridge?" she asks, and he lifts his eyes from the bowl to look at her.

"What?"

"You clearly don't like it." She says "You're eating it like a kid eats Brussels sprouts."

He drops the spoon into the bowl and plops his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers together.

"When I was a young child Mycroft and I shared the same nanny." He told her "I was four and he was eight, and my father judged it correct to try to make us… bond, if you will." He waves his hands, dismissing it "she was an extremely elderly Scottish lady, and our fights drove her insane. So she invented this rule. Important discussions should be held over porridge, never without it." He continued "It took us both quite a bit of time to understand why. I always thought she was just old and senile, but then I realized she managed to attenuate the intensity of our spats. While she was making the porridge, we both had to sit quietly, which is surprisingly effective in calming the nerves of young children."

He smiles at her and she smiles back, taking the opportunity to push her own bowl away from her.

"She died after a few months taking care of us, probably because Mycroft was a horrid child, but I never stopped doing it. I do hate porridge. But it seemed to me that the sacrifice was worth it."

She grabs his hand over the table and puts a spoonful of porridge in her mouth, swallowing it a bit more easily.

"Are we about to have an important discussion?"

"Yes, Watson. I do believe we are."

**Author's Note: Weirdly, I now fancy a bowl of porridge. Enjoy and please review! **


	3. Tell Me

**Chapter 3: Tell Me**

"I don't really know what to say." She confesses, and it's perhaps the most perfect thing she could have said.

It's a chilly Sunday morning and they are at their most vulnerable state. They both know they are being observed, scrutinized, analysed to the very core of their existence. She's looking at a side of him she's never seen before and he's looking at a side of her no one – not even herself – knew existed. It's confusing and messy and quite frankly, a wee disturbing.

"You've only had one meaningful relationship with your life, and that relationship was with Irene." She states, matter-of-factly.

"Moriarty." He corrects, and she sees a faint shade of sadness go through his eyes.

"Yes." She agrees "But before she was Moriarty, before you knew who she was. I want you to tell me about the relationship you had before that."

"I don't see the point." He tells her "It was all a lie."

"It wasn't for you." She says, giving his hand a light squeeze. "I want to know what it was like for you."

"Alright."

_June 23, 2011_

_Irene Adler's Flat_

_17 Three Kings Yard, London_

_"Hello? Irene?" he calls, setting a medium-sized paper bag on the floor. He takes a second to look around before taking the bouquet of lilies he brought her to the kitchen. He makes a point to bring her flowers once a week, even though he knows they'll be dead in less than three days. He removes the – dead – roses he brought her the previous week from the vase and tosses them on the rubbish bin, careful not to drip too much water. The lilies are a bit short for that particular vase, but it's the only one he finds, so he leaves them there nonetheless. _

_"Up here!" She yells, and he follows the faint sound of a song playing._

_"Hello." He repeats, and plants a kiss on her hair. "What's this?"_

_He knows what it is. Knows __**who **__it is. She's a brilliant painter and the picture looks almost identical to the photo he has. The dark fur, the snout and those unmistakable expressive yes. He sits on the grass at a location he promptly recognizes as the Richmond Park, surrounded by tall trees. It's a sunny day and the sky is clear, and somewhere, far in the back, he notices a little boy. He doesn't have a face and yet he seems scared – something he's positive only the most talented of artists can accomplish – and lost. He appears young, but the sombre colours he wears age him a few years. He wears a single-breasted dark grey jacket and trousers the same colour, and black cap toe balls. It wouldn't be a very distinctive outfit, not if he weren't wearing the brightest, most scandalous lime green socks in the planet._

_He glances at his watch, and it marks 6:47 PM. Years later, he'll remember that moment as the day Irene Adler crawled into his brain, his life, and lodged there, like a bullet that doesn't leave an exit wound, forever._

"She painted the dog I had as a boy." Sherlock tells her, in a choked-out almost whisper.

Joan struggles to understand why he seems so disturbed by a painting of a childhood pet. She can't think of clear answer as to why this would upset him so much, so she waits for him to continue.

"One our servants – one of my father's drivers, likely – ran over the animal." He says "Redbeard, I had named him, died almost instantly, but not before he could produce the most horrid sound I have ever had the displeasure of listening to. I was six years old."

She gives his hand another light squeeze and offers him a compassionate smile, but the sentiment doesn't seem to vitiate his feelings. It's a brand-new virgin ground, and she's not entirely sure what she's supposed to do.

_Cont'd_

_"Irene." He cries, and she turns around on her stool to look at him "What is this painting?"_

_"I thought you'd like it." She says, innocently._

_"Why would you think such a nonsensical thing?" he says, and for a second, wishes he hadn't been quite so harsh "There's a reason why I didn't tell you about him, and there is certainly a reason why I'm upset. I don't know how you found out about this bloody dog, but I don't want to remember it, don't want to talk about it, and I positively, one hundred percent do not want to see a painting of it!"_

_He doesn't linger in the room and she doesn't follow him, and he's out of her flat and walking towards the tube in less than five minutes. Redbeard is a distant, painful memory, and Sherlock Holmes is not one to allow painful memories to surface and affect him._

"It was not… she did not have the right." He says. "Of course I didn't realise it back then, but she meant to… hurt me." He says "She meant to hurt me all along."

"I'm sorry." She mutters, and doesn't manage to think about anything to say.

"It's a perfect metaphor of our relationship, the painting." He concludes "It's destructive, but very discreet. And both introduced a confused part of myself."

He's the one who smiles this time, rising to his feet.

"I want you to see it."

"See what?"

"Redbeard and the Boy Who Lost." He responds "That's what she named it. Redbeard and the Boy Who Lost. She had it sent to me a few days after she lost her liberty. It's in my bedroom."

It's very typical of him, to keep something that keeps on causing him pain. Leaving it there, staring, scaring, scarring.

They go up the stairs and down the hallway and she realises she's never been in his bedroom before. It's astonishingly clean, spotless really, and not at all what you'd expect of the great Sherlock Holmes. A king-sized bed with a cushioned headboard lies against the wall, covered in all-white linen. A light-blue comforter rests on a nearby armchair, and she presumes he sleeps on the chair more often than he does in the bed. It's not a particularly beautiful room, it's actually quite dull, but she likes it. The dresser is low and sturdy, the wood very dark, contrasting with the light-coloured bed. The closet is closed and its door is also dark, and right next to that door, she sees it.

It's gorgeous, that's not a matter of discussion. The colours are balanced and the strokes and both soft and decisive. The dog is absolutely stunning. It could be put in a museum, and most people would mistake it for a Reynolds.

"It's beautiful." She says, reaching for his hand.

"That's one thing she did not fake. She is indeed an exquisite painter." Their fingers entwine, and she leans on him, head resting on his shoulder.

"It's not always like this, Sherlock." She assures him, even though she knows he's well aware. "We are not like this."

She lifts her head from his shoulder and turns to face him, taking his other hand into hers in the process.

"Irene, and only Irene, is responsible for the failure of your relationship."

He sighs, and she understands. She can't heal those wounds, she can try, but she can't fix them. No amount of love or comprehension will never heal those wounds. And that's okay, she concludes, because she too, has wounds he cannot heal.

"I think she did love you, Sherlock."

"That hardly matters." He says, leaning closer to her "I did not want to be loved. I wanted to be understood."

She chuckles, not because she finds it particularly funny, but because it's the first time she really understood what the sentence meant.

"Did she understand you?"

"I don't know." He whispers "It's not important. Not anymore."

He brushes his lips against hers softly, chastely, delicately. It's not a lusty kiss and that's probably best.

They'll figure it all out, she concludes, as she rests his forehead against his. In their own time.


	4. Heart Full of Soul

**Chapter 4: Heart Full of Soul**

It takes them one month, two weeks, and three days to tell anyone they're dating. Oren's wife comes down with a bad bout of the flu while he's in Beijing, and Joan gets a desperate call for help. They have three-year old twins who are wayward enough without being bed-ridden, and she agrees to babysit them for the two remaining days of Oren's trip. She's weary, not only because she doesn't often tend to children but also because she's not sure whether or not she can count on Sherlock's help, or if she should expect to count on it. He's not home when she gets the call, and she's too busy taking off all sorts of dangerous experiments out of reach to ring him.

Anna's sister – a sixteen year old who could really benefit from some clothes that fit her – drops Daniel and Amelia off at the Brownstone at around 3:45 PM, a couple of hours after Oren rang her. It's been a few months since Joan last saw them and they've grown so much ever since. Amelia's hair is much longer and Daniel no longer looks like a little baby. The kid doesn't loiter and Joan brings the twins – and their seemingly exaggerated amount of luggage – inside.

She placed a few thin mattresses on the floor of the living room so that they would have a – hopefully – clean place to play. She's not sure where they'll sleep, but brief calculations tell her it's best to put them both down on her bed and spend the night in Sherlock's room. She sits on one of the mattresses and pulls Amelia to her lap, watching as Daniel takes a Hi-Ho Cherry-O box from a large duffle bag.

"What are we playing?" Joan asks, ruffling Amelia's hair. It's a lot like hers, black and thin and very smooth. Amelia looks a lot like Oren and she IS Oren's sister, so it's not that much of a surprise.

"Hi-Ho Cherry-O" Daniel answers. "We can teach you how to play, if you don't know."

"Oh, thank you."

He sets up the game quickly, placing all the cherries carefully on the tree and assigning each of them a colour. 

"Aunt Joan, you'll be green." He says, "Amy, you'll be yellow. I'll be blue."

"I don't want to be yellow! I want to be red!" Amelia cries, turning the board so that the red basket is in front of her.

"No! You'll be yellow!" Daniel yells, turning the board again.

"Hey, hey, don't fight." Joan warns, "Daniel, let your sister be red. Come on, let's play."

He explains the rules quickly, pointing at the wheel several times to inform her what each section means.

"Whomever gets the most cherries wins."

Sherlock bursts through the door exactly when Daniel finishes his sentence. He carries a large paper bag and one smaller, but not necessarily small, plastic bag. The kids stare at him, mouths agape, as he takes off his coat and shoes without glancing at them.

"Watson, I stopped at the precinct and…"

Yeah, now he has noticed them for sure. No one really knows what to do, and surprisingly, Sherlock is the one who breaks the silence.

"Watson, mind introducing me to your new friends?"

"Mm, yes, sure. Sherlock, these are Amelia and Daniel, Oren's twins." She informs, "I'm babysitting them for a couple of days. I was going to call you. I'm sorry."

"You needn't be." He tells her, and she could swear she saw a faint smile appear on his lips "What is it that you're doing?"

"We're playing Hi-Ho Cherry-O!" Daniel responds. "Do you want to play with us?"

"I don't see a reason not to." He says, taking a seat on the floor, next to Joan.

He doesn't think before he leans to press a kiss on her lips, and she doesn't think before she returns the gesture. It's natural, usual, and neither of them gives it too much thought.

Oh, if only they did.

"Aunt Joan, is that your boyfriend?" Amelia asks, bursting into giggles.

Bloody hell.

"Mm, uh…" Joan mutters, failing to find the words to explain the situation. Are they boyfriend and girlfriend? They certainly don't call each other that, but given that they are in a relationship and that they do live together, it's not a particularly odd assumption. Yet, it's a surprising one.

"Yes. I'm your Aunt Joan's boyfriend." Sherlock replies, resting a hand on her knee "Sherlock Holmes." He says, offering her a hand.

It's a ridiculous sight, really. A fully-grown man sitting cross-legged on a flimsy mattress, polka-dot sock clad feet contrasting with his dark brown slacks, offering a formal handshake to a three year old in a Dora the Explorer tee.

It's even more ridiculous when she does shake his hand and smiles, saying "My name is Amelia Grace Watson. Nice to meet you."

"I do not believe I'm familiar with this game, Daniel." Sherlock says, letting go of Amelia's hand.

"You spin that wheel there," Daniel tells him, pointing at the wheel in the centre of the board "and then you take your cherries."

"But you also maybe have to give your cherries back." Amelia added.

"I was going to say that!" Daniel bellowed, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I see they are prone to altercations." Sherlock remarked, "We shall have lots of fun."

* * *

They manage to put both kids in bed by 9:30, after much effort. Amelia doesn't want to brush her teeth and Daniel thinks sleeping before 10:00 is a "baby thing", so she and Sherlock take rounds reading them stories. Sherlock reads Tom Tit Tot and Cap O' Rushes, and Joan reads Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse and Molly Whuppie, all four stories complete with voices and sounds. Amelia dozes off after Cap O' Rushes, but Daniel lasts all the way until the very end of Molly Whuppie. She leaves the hallway light on in case any of them needs the loo in the middle of the night, and she and Sherlock retreat to his bedroom shortly after.

They are absolutely knackered. Between getting them to eat their supper and bathing the two of them, a lot of effort was placed in trying to make sure they were okay.

"I'm exhausted." She sighs, throwing herself on the bed.

He drops next to her and rubs soft circles on her back, pulling the comforter up.

"You were great today, Sherlock." She tells him, turning her body around to face him. She presses herself against his chest and feels the warmth of his arms wrapping around her, as his fingers draw lazy patterns over her sweater.

"And you were absolutely brilliant." He says, pressing a kiss against her hair. They fall asleep after maybe three or four minutes, not bothering to change into pyjamas or even take off their sweaters.

They're abruptly awoken three-odd hours later, by the tapping of little feet coming into the room. There are whispers too, several little "shh, don't make any noise's", "do you think she'll be upset?'s" and "I saw it, I saw the monster under the bed. It was sooooo big!'s". Sherlock is the first to take heed of the children.

"Amelia, Daniel, what's wrong?" he asks, sitting up.

"There's a monster under our bed!" Amelia says, still whispering.

"I'm positive there is not."

"There is!" she cries, clutching the teddy bear she brought with her "Can we sleep with you? We don't want to sleep with the monster!"

Sherlock looks at Joan for a second, wondering if he should wake her and summon her help to put the two of them back in bed, and concludes that's best to simply sandwich Daniel and Amelia between the two of them and go back to sleep.

"Alright." He says "Come. Be careful not to wake your aunt."

He assists the two of them into the bed and adjusts the comforter over the four of them, smoothing Amelia's hair before closing his eyes.

"You'd be a great father, Sherlock." Joan says, without opening her eyes.

He's not entirely sure what that's supposed to mean, but smiles at the thought nonetheless.

"Goodnight, Watson."


	5. Twas The Night Before Christmas

**Chapter 5: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas...**

He is awoken by a loud thud and a muffled scream. He reaches from Joan – whom he assumed was lying next to him – and panics when his hand pats the comforter. Okay, all right, time to freak out.

He jumps out of the bed and rushes down the stairs, racing mind accompanying racing feet. He's scared, really fucking terrified, until he reaches the landing. From there, he can see just where the thud came from.

He sees a tumbled Christmas tree – a real one, too – and underneath it, an array of ornaments. The chocolate snowmen, shiny tinsel, fairy lights, tiny wooden nutcrackers, a few glass balls… and then he sees her. She's sitting to the right of the tree, next to an also tumbled stool, rubbing her foot. She holds a glittered golden star in one hand and rubs arnica on her foot with the other, grimacing at the touch.

You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what happened. Joan Watson, five feet nothing, tried to put the tree topper on the tree, perching herself atop a very wobbly stool, and the rest is told by the scene in front of him. He descends the rest of the stairs and clears his throat when he gets down, crossing her arms in front of his chest.

"Watson?" he calls, taking a few steps closer to her.

"Sherlock, no." she whines, placing both her hands on the floor and lifting herself up. "No, go back to bed."

"What is it that you are doing?" He asks, ignoring her pleas "Why is there a toppled-over tree in our living room?"

"I was…"

She tries to lift the tree in the hopes of avoiding telling him her plans, but really, she knows him better than that. It's futile, and she knows it. The tree is almost as heavy as she is and at least a foot taller, and there's no way in hell she's going to put it back up without help.

So he helps her. He's strong enough to do it on his own but she insists on helping him, and takes to collecting the fallen ornaments once they finish the initial task.

"Explain." He demands, taking a box from his armchair and passing it to her. She tosses a few ornaments in it, without looking at him "Watson?"

"I was trying to teach you."

"You were trying to teach me?" he asks, adding a flourish to the word 'teach' "What were you trying to teach me, if you don't mind explaining?"

"Christmas."

"You needn't teach me anything about it, Watson. One of my father's requirements was the weekly Sunday school attendance." He told her "Christmas is the day in which we celebrate the birth of God's most loved disciple, Jesus Christ" he said, obviously doing an interpretation of the person who taught him in Sunday school "Mary wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn, as written in Luke 2:7, and we celebrate this holy day on December 25th." He continued.

"I'm not talking about the story of Christmas." She says "I'm talking about the traditions, Sherlock. Eggnog, mistletoe, stockings, putting up the Christmas tree, reading Dickens. I wanted to give you the Christmases you lost as a child. I was going to make peppermint bark and candied yams, and I found that Twinings Christmas Tea you once mentioned you liked…" she blurted, throwing a few more ornaments on the box "and now it's ruined."

"It is most certainly not ruined." He told her, picking an ornament from the floor and hanging it on a branch "Don't just stand there, Watson. Help me decorate the tree."

* * *

She will never find a mystery more intriguing than Sherlock Holmes. Never will she find someone odder, more brilliant, infuriating, tiresome,_complete_, as Sherlock Holmes.

She will never understand why the world's first consulting detective, a self-proclaimed sceptic, a connoisseur of truths, a unbeliever of magic and the greatest prick Great Britain has ever produced, is sitting cross-legged under the Christmas tree, _THEIR_ Christmas tree, in a knit jumper that's the very colour of Rudolph's nose, reading a copy of _A Christmas Carol_. He has a cup too, a steaming one, pretty patterns in green and red stained on white porcelain, and she can see a plate with peppermint bark scraps next to it.

She will never understand why he's listening to the Sussex Carol, or why he helped her decorate the tree, or why he made them tea when she went upstairs to shower, she will not understand why he has chosen to embrace the traditions pertaining to a holiday he does not celebrate. No, Joan Watson will never understand just how much Sherlock Holmes has changed because of her, _for her_.

No, she will never understand his reasons why. She understands him, however, or at least knows him enough to try and not fail miserably. And deep down, she knows he understands her, too. Her idiosyncrasies match his, and she's really, positively, absurdly happy they are together.

She sits across from him on a chair that's as uncomfortable as your first plonk hangover, and pulls her tea mug to her lap. Attached to the mug, is a note.

_"Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature." _

_Halved I stood, Watson, for too long._

_Not anymore._

_-SH_

Yes, he understands her, and when she looks up at him and their eyes meet, she realises that she does understand him. She might not understand some of his actions, might not understand everything he says or why he says them, but she does understand him. Sherlock Holmes is an enigma, that's a fact, and facts don't change. But he's an enigma she's done trying to solve.

Enigmas are beautiful, she reflects, and he's beautiful. She has the map, and if she ever decides to follow the yellow brick road that leads to the full understanding of his soul, it'll be there, ready to lead her to Mecca. But for now, loving him and being loved by him is enough.


	6. The East Wind, Part One

Chapter 6: The East Wind, Part One

There's an east wind coming. All the same, such a wind as it never blew in England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's god's own wind none the less, and a better, cleaner, stronger land will lie in the sunshine once the storm has cleared.

His Last Bow, 1917

She's awoken by the sound of a ringing phone. At 3:47 in the morning. On a Sunday. Sherlock doesn't get up to get it, he doesn't move at all, so she rolls off the bed and walks to the corridor, where they keep an extension of the phone, and picks the nuisance from its cradle.

"Hello?" she says, trying to mask the tired tone in her voice.

"Joan? Hello, it's Mycroft." The voice on the other end of the line says, his tone sombre and bitter.

"Mycroft, what's the matter?" She asks, turning the corridor light on. The brightness hurts her eyes and she grimaces, walking back towards the bedroom.

"I need to speak to Sherlock, if you don't mind."

"He's asleep, Mycroft. It's ten 'til four."

"Would you be so kind as to wake him up?" he asks, and she can tell it's something serious "tell him it's about Edith."

"Alright, give me a second." She hates waking Sherlock up. Absolutely loathes it. He sleeps in his own time, on his own particular cycles, and interfering with those is never a good idea. "Sherlock." She calls, nudging his arm lightly "Sherlock."

"No."

"Sherlock, Mycroft's on the phone. He wants to speak to you."

"Gargantuan no."

"He says it's about Edith."

And then he's up. It strikes him like a lightening, and in less than ten seconds, he's out of the bed, snatches the phone out of her hand, and is out in the corridor. She doesn't hear much of the conversation, but she picks up a few things. Something about Wales, something about a nurse, another thing about getting in the next flight, and then he's back, opening drawers quickly and tossing clothes on the bed like a madman.

"What happened? What's wrong?" she asks, ducking from a scarf.

"My presence was summoned." He answers, robotically "to Presteigne."

"I don't know where that is."

"East Wales."

"Summoned by whom? Is it a case?" she questions, but he doesn't answer. He's still moving around frantically, selecting pairs of socks, folding trousers and yanking jumpers out of hangers. "Sherlock?"

"It is not a case." He says "I have been summoned by my mother."

"Your… your mother?" she blurts "I thought your mother was dead."

"Dead, no. Severely impaired, yes, since the 80's." he tells her, pulling a small suitcase from the back of the closet. "It's the first lucid moment she has since 1986, at least lucid enough to request something."

"I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I honestly cannot discuss this at present time, Watson."

"Are you going?"

"It's my mother."

"I just thought…"

"I'm going."

She gets up from the bed and walks to the door, turning to face him.

"I'm coming with you."

He looks at her for the first time since he got the call, and she notices the sadness in his eyes. It's intense and deep and very rare, and she fights a strong urge to scoop him into her arms and hold him until he's alright. He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts him off.

"It's not a question. Give me fifteen minutes to pack."

* * *

_The echoes of her screams ripple through the halls of a house once called a home. The guttural, soul-wrenching, heart-breaking wails enter his bedroom and fill the space. He tries to muffle the sound, plays a song on his violin and then drops to his bed, pressing a pillow firmly to his face. It doesn't work. He can still hear her, hear everything she's saying, hear her as she shuts off his father, his brother, her mother._

_He drops to his knees and does what gran always told him to do – even though he knows it never works – asks the nice man up in the sky to help his mum. But the nice man up in the sky doesn't hear little Sherlock Holmes, and his mummy is escorted off to an asylum the following week._

_He too, is sent off. To a nice boarding school in Grenoble, Switzerland, where he spend most of his teen years. His father doesn't allow much contact between Sherlock and his mother – "it's futile. She's long gone." He'd say, and his sons had no choice but to accept his decisions – but he is allowed to take a small box with him. It's small and white, with little green gemstones forming a circle around the name 'Edith' imprinted on the top. It has three thin drawers and a bigger compartment with a small mirror, in which he stores a pearl bracelet and a locket._

_The bracelet is very simple – a string of exactly twenty-six Tahitian pearls - and the locket isn't very posh either. There's a picture of a very young Sherlock being held by a grinning Mycroft, and a monogram with the letters MHS composes the other side. He doesn't know their value, doesn't care about their value, but he always, without fail, kept the box in the safest place he can find._

_The real treasure lies on the little thin drawers. The first one holds four pictures. One, a young Edith in her Christening gown on her godmum's lap inside a church. Two, a picture dated January 26th, 1975, Edith and Mycroft grinning to the camera, the little boy hugging her oversized stomach. Three, a picture with a note on the back that reads "Sherlock William Holmes, 4 days old" which is torn on the sides, as if removed from a photo album, of Edith holding a teensy baby. And fourth, one of his favourites, a picture of her lying in her bed on mother's day, Mycroft carrying a tray with tea and scones, while Sherlock stands behind and clutches a small envelope._

_The third drawer hold two things. A shortbread recipe, typed in 1985 with a Memorywriter and a paper with the writing 'Edith Margot Annabeth Dasburg-Holmes, Room 83'_

_The second drawer is hard to open. The little knob has fallen off and the hole it left is not big enough for the average finger. But he knows how to do it, with a sharpened pencil and a clear ruler, and it holds the most important of all possessions. It's a post-it note, faded yellow, with a few scrabbles in the footnote – probably from trying to get the pen to work. The handwriting is not very clear. It's distinctive, aristocratic, clearly the penmanship of an educated woman with training in cursive, but uncertain, faint, ugly._

_**January 6th, 1986**_

_**Hello, sweetheart. I hope you haven't forgotten all about me. I don't like it here too much. Too many pills, too little tea. You're ten today, aye? Happy birthday, lad. May you always be happy, and never forget about me. May you grow strong, and never succumb to insanity. May you always remember there's nothing wrong with getting help.**_

_**And also they let me get a tortoise. I named it Angus.**_

_**Love, Mummy.**_

_The book, Measure for Measure – and the post-it attached to it – didn't arrive _until his birthday had long passed, but he didn't care.

The moment she wrote that note was her last one lucid one. Until now, that is.

* * *

They arrive at the Birmingham airport at two AM the following day. The seven-hour time difference and the rubbish seats on the plane did absolutely nothing to Sherlock's already compromised mood. He's stiff, his hands deep into his pockets as they leave the plane and walk out of the airport, their duffle bags bouncing on his back. She wants to say something, desperately needs to say something, but she can't. She can't imagine what he's feeling – actually, she can, but things don't affect Sherlock as they affect regular people – so she grabs his hand and entwines their fingers together as they enter the car Mycroft sent them. He squeezes her hand and glues his eyes to the back of the passenger's seat, motionless, speechless, numb.

It's not long until they arrive. She doesn't know what to expect, up until twelve hours ago she could've sworn Sherlock's mother was dead, and yet, she's taken aback by the place the motorist drops them off. The cottage is small, but very charming. There's a garden in the front yard and a stone path leading to the front door. Smoke comes out of the chimney and she hears the soft noise of classical music. He lets go of her hand and walks to the door, taking small steps and deep breaths.

He pushes the knocker three times and waits for an answer, and she also walks to the door.

"Hiya." A young woman says, cheerfully. She has long blonde braids and a reddish composition, and Joan wonders if she's the nurse. "You must be Mrs. Holmes' son."

"Yes. Sherlock. Hello." He says, offering her a hand "This is my partner, Joan."

"Hello." Joan says, and the woman nods her head with a smile.

"Come on in. Kettle's just boiled."

She leads them to a small kitchen, where a copper-coloured kettle whistles and the smell of freshly baked bread fills the air.

"It smells great in here." Joan says, as she helps Sherlock set their bags down.

"Thank you. It's apricot and raisin tea loaf. Slice?"

"Yes, thank you."

"No worries. I'm Julie."

Joan offers her a warm smile and eyes Sherlock, who's staring fixatedly at the adjoining sitting room.

"Sherlock?"

"Is that her? In the rocking chair?" he asks Julie.

"Aye, that's her."

He walks out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, his heart pounding as fast as it never did before. He circles the chair and crouches in front of it, placing his hand on Edith's lap.

She doesn't notice him at first. There's a moth flying around a lamp in the coffee table that seems to fascinate her, and she stares at the insect with interest. But when she places her hand on top of his and feels the warmth of his hand underneath hers, she seems to be attacked by an avalanche of emotions.

"Is that my Sherlock?" she asks, her voice cracking

"Yes, mum. It's me."

"Is that really you?" she yells, flying her arms around as if trying to embrace him "My baby boy!"

"I'm here, mum. I'm here."

**Author's Note: I was in a VERY angsty mood this week. I am utterly sorry. Also, typed and edited on my mobile, so please don't hesitate to point out any mistakes. Enjoy!**


	7. The East Wind, Part Two

**Chapter 7: The East Wind, Part Two**

She never shed a tear for those who died, but cried rivers for those who lived. She never lit candles for the deceased, but rather held the hands of those who lost.

Sherlock was an exception to nearly every rule, but not this one.

She held his hand as they wheeled Edith away, her lifeless eyes glued to the ceiling. She cried in the waiting room of Knighton Hospital, once she thought he couldn't see her. She packed both their bags and set a change of clothes for him aside - grey trousers, a white vest, navy jumper, and light blue/orange striped socks - and got everything else ready for their trip back to New York. He didn't utter many words, none other than a few 'thanks's' and single-syllable adverbs, but she knew he was thankful for everything she was doing.

She also knew regret was destroying him, bit by bit, as pain and sorrow settled in his bones, his heart, his brain. He went on, from the hotel to Edith's home to the airport to the brownstone, words abandoned in his tongue. She stood by his side as he and Mycroft finished the arrangements for the service, assuring him that no, she didn't think he needed to go to the funeral if he didn't want to.

She's left alone for the first time nine hours after they get to New York, when Sherlock goes out for a walk. She cries again then, alone in her bedroom, before walking down the stairs to make tea. She waits for him, steaming mug in her hand as she sits, cross-legged, in his favourite chair.

And she wonders what makes a great man. The people he helped? The money he earned? How loved he was? For Joan, a great man was composed of all the things that brought all kinds of reactions and emotions. Idiosyncrasies, habits, discourse marks, personality traits, a humongous amount of details, often overlooked, that made a man a great one. Sherlock is a great man. That much she's sure of.

They don't sleep in the same bed that night. She drags herself to bed around midnight, when the jet-lag finally gets to her. He isn't home when she goes to bed, and she doesn't know for sure if he'll be the Sherlock he once was upon his return.

_Thirteen hours earlier_

"_So that was good." She says, kicking off her boots. _

_They managed to find a room in one of the city's few accommodation facilities, a bed and breakfast called The Old Vicarage, a few minutes from Edith's estate. The room is quite big, with a large post bed and a huge window, and very cosy. It doesn't matter much, but the flight was long and a good bed was a nice luxury to have. _

"_Good?" he asks, entering the bathroom. _

"_You don't think?"_

"_I would not necessarily call it 'good'." He tells her, leaving a trail of dirty clothes behind him as he moves to take a shower. _

"_But not bad?" _

"_It was not bad." He agrees, mostly to get her to stop asking. _

"_Your mom seemed good. Healthy and well-cared for." She comments "I think Julie's good at what she does."_

"_Mmm." He murmurs._

"_What?"_

"_Far too young." He says, turning on the water "Clever, but far too young."_

"_Well, I like her." _

_The buzzing of Sherlock's mobile interrupts the conversation. It's not a good sign, she thinks. Alfredo knows he's not in New York, Captain Gregson and everyone else in the NYPD do too (Sherlock made a point to tell every single one of them not to muck everything up while he was gone). It's not like many other people would be ringing him. _

"_Sherlock!" She calls "Your phone is buzzing."_

"_Get that for me, will you?" he shouts back._

_She walks towards the spot in the floor where his trousers are pooled and fishes his mobile out of the left pocket, bringing it to her ear._

"_Hello?"_

"_Joan?" a girl murmurs, her voice heavy "It's Julie."_

"_Julie? What's the matter?"_

"_Joan, Mrs Holmes…" she stops to take a deep breath "she's gone."_

"_Gone? She's dead?"_

"_They just came and…" another deep breath "she held her arm and it was so fast. I tried to help, but she just fell to the floor. I rang Mr. Holmes, just like he told me to, before dialling 999. I thought… I thought they were just going to take her to the A&E and then she'd be back. But she's not. She's not." Julie blurted out. _

_They say death may be the greatest of human blessings. _

_She's not so sure. _

He's not going to cry. That's what he repeats to himself, alternating it with that "queer times in this strange mixed affair" Moby Dick quote. He has walked up and down the same three streets repeatedly, hands in his pockets, wondering why losing his mum is so hard, especially considering he lost her long ago. He thinks about his father, thinks about Mycroft, Watson, and eventually, himself. It didn't hit him until right then, how protected you can feel with just the idea of someone being there for you, and how vulnerable you feel when this idea is shattered.

He's not alone, not physically, not any more alone than he was when his mum was still alive, but somehow, he feels… _wrong. _He can't exactly pinpoint why though, and that bothers him. He likes answers, concrete ones, and Edith's death failed to give him some.

A part of him died with her, but he doesn't know that.

It's well after three when she hears a noise coming from downstairs. It's gradual, coming first from the kitchen, then from the hallway, then from right outside her door. She turns to face it, and smiles at the sight of Sherlock.

"Hey." She says, reaching towards him with her right arm.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he closes the door behind him and slides next to her under the quilt, settling himself in her arms.

And there, he cries.


End file.
